


ashamed

by MayWilder



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Meditation, Short, Spock's inner thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22227535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayWilder/pseuds/MayWilder
Summary: On nights like this, where I filter through all of these thoughts, I find it difficult to meditate. My mind struggles to sort itself, to maintain control over the unbalanced emotions in my katra. It is, quite simply, exhausting. To spend what feels to be every moment fighting my base instincts, to balance the desire to be human with the necessity of Vulcan control, drains me so completely. I require sleep to rest, but it is fruitless. Sleep brings no rest.Sleep, quite simply, brings Jim.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock, Pavel Chekov & James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock & Hikaru Sulu & Nyota Uhura, Spock & Hikaru Sulu, Spock & Nyota Uhura
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	ashamed

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of vent fic, where instead of growing up Christian and gay, Spock grows up Vulcan and Human.

_ “When I feel friendship for you, I am ashamed.” _

I said those words long ago, to hide the truth. I do feel ashamed when I think of our friendship. This is not the Vulcan way, to have friends. Though we are on a ship of primarily humans and other emotional species, I cannot forget this. It is a truth I sometimes desire to imprint upon my skin, so that I may not forget this truth. This fact. At least, it must be fact. It must be. 

_ Yet.  _

Yet Hikaru Sulu brings me potted flowers of his most exciting successes. We discuss the genes of flowers, the revival of plants long ago thought extinct, no longer called such because this brilliant botanist has discovered the necessary process to recreating the genes. Our conversations are fulfilling and our time together not wasted. I leave his company pleased, content, and encouraged. 

Is this not friendship?

Yet Nyota comes to my quarters with musical compositions she thinks I will enjoy. There is no logic to her actions, not truly. Her compositions could be played by any number of musicians on board. Out of all of them, she prefers to bring them to me, watching me learn, and discussing music at great length. When she departs, she presses a hand to my shoulder and gives me a smile, as if there is a great secret only the two of us know. 

Is this not friendship?

If not, I believe I am still woefully behind in understanding human customs. My relationships with certain members of the USS Enterprise could certainly not be classified as professional, for the boundaries go above and beyond the necessary interactions for a successful, professional partnership. Whether it be in regards to my teams in the lab, the engineers and medical personnel I collaborate with, or any of the command team, I have begun to expand those boundaries. In particular, I have expanded those boundaries with my captain. 

There is no other individual with whom I am in more contact with than he. The captain is someone I permit to physically engage me. His hands often find themselves on my chest, shoulders, back, or--on rare occasion--my knee. I am ashamed to say that I have no recollection of the date when I began to allow this. Only that I have recently taken note of how freely he expresses himself with me, and that I allow it. 

I would be scorned on Vulcan for allowing--welcoming--such contact. 

On nights like this, where I filter through all of these thoughts, I find it difficult to meditate. My mind struggles to sort itself, to maintain control over the unbalanced emotions in my katra. It is, quite simply, exhausting. To spend what feels to be every moment fighting my base instincts, to balance the desire to be human with the necessity of Vulcan control, drains me so completely. I require sleep to rest, but it is fruitless. Sleep brings no rest. 

Sleep, quite simply, brings Jim. 

Some nights, I feel the furious burn of desire. It licks at my skin, consumes my brain until all that is left is memories of pon farr, the only time I was uninhibited around him. When we fought, our bodies so close together, the feral anger ripping from me because I wanted him and could not have him so I craved to destroy--

To devour and be devoured. To simultaneously desire to break apart while becoming one with the object of your lust. If I were a pre-reform Vulcan, stripped of logic and control, it is not difficult to imagine what I would be like. A simple switch and I would have my captain on the floor of the bridge, submitting to me. And he would be mine, golden skin marked with my possession. What beauty that could be. 

Lust is a painful, curious thing. 

There are other nights when I do not dream of lovemaking. Instead, I dream of intimacies I have long abandoned. The simple relief of a hug after a long day. The far gone feeling of someone curling close to you with trust, in seek of comfort, makes my ribs ache, healed only by the squeeze of Jim’s fingers around my wrist. He sometimes smiles at me, soft and to the side when he is speaking with someone else. I imagine he would offer a smile similar to that, in the soft light of a Vulcan sunrise. 

I want all of these things, and I am helpless to control the manifestation of them in my dreams.

Vulcans should not dream, of course. Thus, I will not sleep. If I do not sleep, I do not dream. If I do not dream, I do not awake with more misery at going about my day, empty because I will not allow myself what I crave. 

I made a commitment to the Vulcan way of life. I do not abandon my commitments, as it would reflect poorly on my parents.

On my friends. 

On my Captain. 

I am Vulcan. 

I am  _ Vulcan. _

_ I am Vulcan.  _

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up at maywildflowers on tumblr for a trashcan of my faves


End file.
